Into the Woods

B came over, late morning, to ask could he cut up the latest windfall oak. A large tree that just pulled up it's root-ball and toppled. A lousy day for being in the woods, but what the hell? He cleaned that larger branches (dry, and held off the ground) for me, cut up the trunk for himself, which he'll have to split before he can even carry out the pieces; said if I needed wood, to come over with my wheel-barrow and rob his woodshed. I'm fine for now, though I need to spend an hour or two in my woodshed tomorrow. All in for today, carrying wood out of a tangle of green briar. I rough-stacked it under the porch roof of the print shop and need to get it to my house (100 yards) tomorrow, where I can cut it up with the electric chainsaw. The last leg of the driveway, along the ridge to the house, is a muddy mess, and I'm hoping for a light freeze tonight, so I can carry the rest of the dry stuff home tomorrow morning. I made three trips in the late afternoon, but by then my boots were caked with mud and I was trashing the house when I came in for a cup of tea and a smoke. The obvious question is why I choose to live this way, and there's not a clear reason. Because I can, because it's cheap, because I like not being disturbed; but also because I like the challenge, and because it keeps me outside, in the natural world. At one point today, deep in the thicket, B and I were taking a break, we'd both found dry stumps to sit on, and we didn't talk at all, listening to the bird-song I'm physically shot, not the man I used to be, but god-damn it was a beautiful day; blue skies and temps in the forties, I had to shed a few layers, and at one point I was so inordinately happy that I feared for my sanity. "How could man, how could men, confronted thus...". All good, despite the pain in my shoulders and the fact that I'm dragging my left leg in the snow, I still prefer this to whatever might be the alternative. It starts to rain, a staccato beat I know will change to sleet and then snow. Another round.